01-03-2025, 09:08 PM
Tristan watched as Thalia disappeared into the shadows, her curiosity outweighing the caution he would have preferred. He stayed in the main room for a moment, his golden eyes sweeping the space. It was an unsettling mix of desolation and haste, as though it had been left behind not by choice but by necessity. Papers fluttered slightly in the draft sneaking through cracks in the walls, and the old machinery stared back at him like the hollow eyes of ghosts. He crouched, picking up a fragment of one of the fallen computer monitors. The jagged edge of the cracked screen reflected faint light, and he frowned at the remnants of what looked like seismic charts beneath the rubble.
"Earthquakes," he muttered to himself, brushing the charts with his fingers. The familiar markings were jagged and erratic, peaks and valleys that spoke of violent activity. His lips pressed into a thin line when he noted the date the earthquakes stopped coming.
The sound of something shuffling, quiet even to his senses, pulled his attention back toward the direction Thalia had gone. He straightened, his sharp gaze cutting across the room to where she had squeezed through the narrow gap of the blocked doorway. He didn’t call out—he knew better than to spook her, especially when she was wrapped in one of her moments of intense focus. Instead, he moved closer to watch.
When she reappeared at the doorway, leaning heavily against the frame, Tristan’s brow furrowed. She looked paler, and her breath misted in uneven puffs in the cold air. The little light she held in her hand flickered, casting strange shadows that danced across the walls. Her voice was casual, but he caught the faint tremor beneath it.
“There are blankets and things in here,” she said, tossing the words out as if they were unimportant. But Tristan noticed her shiver, the way she leaned too heavily on the frame.
He crossed the room quickly, his boots crunching on broken glass and debris. “You’re freezing,” he said, his tone calmer than he felt. His sharp eyes lingered on her for a moment, as though assessing her state, before shifting to the darkened room behind her.
He glanced at her light, then past her shoulder into the dormitory. The air felt heavier in there, untouched for decades. Dust and the smell of old wood and decay clung to the space. Tristan reached out, gently guiding her out of the doorway. “Stay here. I’ll get the blankets.” There was no sharpness in his tone, only a quiet command. She was already pushing herself too hard, and he wasn’t going to let her risk herself further.
He squeezed through the narrow gap she had slipped through. It was a tight fit, his broad shoulders brushing against the edges of the doorway. The dormitory was a stark contrast to the rest of the station. There were no windows here, and the dim light was only bleeding through the opening he’d just entered. Rows of narrow bunk beds lined the walls, their metal frames rusted and bent from decades of moisture. The remains of personal belongings were scattered across the room—a forgotten book, a torn photograph, a pair of boots long worn out. He scanned the space quickly, methodically, picking out what was salvageable.
The blankets she had mentioned were old and moth-eaten, but a few of them seemed sturdy enough to provide some warmth. Tristan gathered them into his arms, his movements efficient. But as he turned to leave, something stopped him—a feeling, cold and sharp, that prickled the back of his neck.
He froze, his breath steady as his eyes scanned the room. And then he saw it. A pale mask, suspended in the air, tilting slightly as though watching him. The sight sent a ripple of tension through his body, and his grip on the blankets tightened. His golden eyes narrowed, the wolfish gleam in them sharp as he stared the thing down.
The mask tilted further, as if in contemplation, before it slipped silently into the shadows, vanishing like smoke. The room fell still again, but the air felt heavier, colder. Tristan’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t linger. Whatever it was, it hadn’t attacked. Not yet.
He squeezed back out through the doorway, returning to where Thalia was waiting. Without a word, he draped one of the blankets over her shoulders, his hands lingering for a moment as he made sure it was snug around her.
“There’s something here. A masked face, a ghost. I saw it in the dormitory. Did you see anything?”
"Earthquakes," he muttered to himself, brushing the charts with his fingers. The familiar markings were jagged and erratic, peaks and valleys that spoke of violent activity. His lips pressed into a thin line when he noted the date the earthquakes stopped coming.
The sound of something shuffling, quiet even to his senses, pulled his attention back toward the direction Thalia had gone. He straightened, his sharp gaze cutting across the room to where she had squeezed through the narrow gap of the blocked doorway. He didn’t call out—he knew better than to spook her, especially when she was wrapped in one of her moments of intense focus. Instead, he moved closer to watch.
When she reappeared at the doorway, leaning heavily against the frame, Tristan’s brow furrowed. She looked paler, and her breath misted in uneven puffs in the cold air. The little light she held in her hand flickered, casting strange shadows that danced across the walls. Her voice was casual, but he caught the faint tremor beneath it.
“There are blankets and things in here,” she said, tossing the words out as if they were unimportant. But Tristan noticed her shiver, the way she leaned too heavily on the frame.
He crossed the room quickly, his boots crunching on broken glass and debris. “You’re freezing,” he said, his tone calmer than he felt. His sharp eyes lingered on her for a moment, as though assessing her state, before shifting to the darkened room behind her.
He glanced at her light, then past her shoulder into the dormitory. The air felt heavier in there, untouched for decades. Dust and the smell of old wood and decay clung to the space. Tristan reached out, gently guiding her out of the doorway. “Stay here. I’ll get the blankets.” There was no sharpness in his tone, only a quiet command. She was already pushing herself too hard, and he wasn’t going to let her risk herself further.
He squeezed through the narrow gap she had slipped through. It was a tight fit, his broad shoulders brushing against the edges of the doorway. The dormitory was a stark contrast to the rest of the station. There were no windows here, and the dim light was only bleeding through the opening he’d just entered. Rows of narrow bunk beds lined the walls, their metal frames rusted and bent from decades of moisture. The remains of personal belongings were scattered across the room—a forgotten book, a torn photograph, a pair of boots long worn out. He scanned the space quickly, methodically, picking out what was salvageable.
The blankets she had mentioned were old and moth-eaten, but a few of them seemed sturdy enough to provide some warmth. Tristan gathered them into his arms, his movements efficient. But as he turned to leave, something stopped him—a feeling, cold and sharp, that prickled the back of his neck.
He froze, his breath steady as his eyes scanned the room. And then he saw it. A pale mask, suspended in the air, tilting slightly as though watching him. The sight sent a ripple of tension through his body, and his grip on the blankets tightened. His golden eyes narrowed, the wolfish gleam in them sharp as he stared the thing down.
The mask tilted further, as if in contemplation, before it slipped silently into the shadows, vanishing like smoke. The room fell still again, but the air felt heavier, colder. Tristan’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t linger. Whatever it was, it hadn’t attacked. Not yet.
He squeezed back out through the doorway, returning to where Thalia was waiting. Without a word, he draped one of the blankets over her shoulders, his hands lingering for a moment as he made sure it was snug around her.
“There’s something here. A masked face, a ghost. I saw it in the dormitory. Did you see anything?”